


In the Deep Dark

by spirogyra



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: AU, Child In Danger, Gen, Grimdark, Imprisonment, Werewolf, terrible parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirogyra/pseuds/spirogyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermann's childhood isn't something he likes to remember, but it's impossible for him to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Deep Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by geniusbee's Hermann the werewolf art. Not related to Mousse's story.

_"You'll never got to university. You're a monster."_

In the darkness, he hears only the voice of his father telling him how he'll always be a monster and to never aspire beyond these four stone walls.

It's better, though, than being haunted by the memories of this room when he was a child. Having that voice to focus his hate on is better than being haunted by the fear and loneliness staring at the single barred window.

The heavy wooden door is bolted, barred, and chained from the outside. He hears, so faintly as to almost be imagined, "I'm sorry."

Of course his mother is sorry. But at least she's there; his father refuses to even look at him on this day. Now whether she's sorry that she's forced to lock him up like this, or sorry he's this and she has to take care of him.

_"I'll see you in the morning."_

_"Mama-"_

_The door shuts, leaving him in darkness except for the fading light of day through the window. He's in his pajamas, but there's no bed in here to sleep on (not that he's tired)._

_He knocks on the door, and it's very solid beneath his small fist. "Mama, I'm hungry. What about dinner?"_

_Silence._

_"Mama!" His knuckles hurt from knocking so he switches to pounding with the side of his fist. "Mama, please let me out!"_

The moon's light shines through the window, casting dark shadows of the bars across the room. He removes his pajamas and tosses them in the corner. Sometimes they survive until morning, and sometimes they're reduced to ribbons. Then he kneels on the floor to let the bright, silver light from the full moon wash over him, and the sensations begin immediately.

_"It doesn't matter how intelligent you think you are. You can't live out in the world, not with normal people. You're not a person now, and don't ever forget that."_

Because people don't go through what he does every month. They don't feel their limbs stretch, their bones break and knit back together as claws rip through the sensitive skin of their fingertips. They don't lose themselves to an uncontrollable beast and wake in the morning wondering what horrors they might have committed.

Arms and legs he's used to now, compartmentalizes the pain as his feet lengthen, so he can focus on the parts that hurt more. The crunching, from his chest, echoes in his ears along with his muted groans. There's the odd stretching feeling in his shoulders that's drown out by pain ripping up his spine, forcing him to brace himself with hands on the floor. Neck and head are a special kind of torture that makes him wish his mind wasn't the last thing to change.

The groans turn to screams as long as his jaw allows it, before it rips itself loose and takes the form of a wholly unnatural wolf. With his skull thickening and warping, logical, intelligent thought becomes impossible. There is only the burning throb of his blood rushing through his body so hard it feels like his heart will explode and the ghosts…

_"Mama! It hurts! Help!"_

_It's dark now except for the moon. He's cold except for the burning in his feet and hands._

_"Mama! Mama, help! Please! I'm scared!" Both of his hands are bloody from desperately pounding on the door; his feet hurt and his toes bleed from kicking it._

_Everything hurts. He can't think._

 

He blinks at the light coming in through the window.

Another night survived.

* * *

 

The door opens slowly, only a crack at the start, then swings open fully with a loud creak of its heavy iron hinges.

"Hermann? Sweetheart, please answer me."

It's been this way every month since _it_ happened. Every month she's worried what she'll find.

Every month her heart is broken.

He's on the floor, curled in a fetal position, naked as the day he was born, unmoving.

For a brief, terrifying (relieved) moment, she thinks he might be dead, but he curls tighter in on himself. That is the thing that spurs her into sudden action, ignoring the nasty thought that says as sad as it would have been, it would have been better for them all if he _had_ been dead.

Kneeling carefully in her expensive shoes and immaculate skirt, trying not to look closely at the injuries marring his skin that look like tears from large claws, she covers him in the blanket she'd brought. She tucks it around him before lifting him.

He is slight, frighteningly so, for his age, and feels hardly more than an unwieldy bag of sugar in her arms. The walk back to the house and his room, she can hardly stop looking at his face. It's not peaceful the way it should be, not at all.

 

There is bread and a glass of water on the bedside table when he wakes up.

"Mother was worried."

Dietrich is there, a schoolbook open in front of him at Hermann's desk.

Hermann's turns to his side, away from the food, and doesn't speak.

_"I'm sorry! Don't leave me in here!"_

That is the memory of his mother: a closed, locked door.

"You're a brat. She was crying, you know?"

It's then he decides he'll run away. They won't miss him.

 

He stuffs a blanket, some bread, and some dried meat into his bag, and then just walks out. Karla looks at him strangely, but says nothing, and he says nothing in return. The forest beyond their well-manicured property is not unknown to him; he's explored it enough to think he knows it better than his siblings.

_Yellow, feral eyes peering at him from the brush._

He even took the bottle of aspirin for his leg. He is prepared for this, and he knows no one else believes he could possibly do it. But he knows the places to hide, where to go when it rains, the nooks that it takes even him several passes to find. And then he'll go north, to Berlin!

And when people ask him why he's not at home, he'll say that his mother locked him in a room and wouldn't give him dinner, and his brother was mean, and his father didn't like to speak to him. Who wouldn't understand that as a reason to leave home?

The air is heavy and moist, and makes his sweater cling uncomfortably to his arms, and dampens the sound of the forest around him. The trees seem taller than ever, making him feel tiny and vulnerable.

_Like prey._

There is a brief moment of panic, brief and all-consuming, when he sees a shadow off between some trees that he knows is a deer.

_He shouldn't be here. This is the domain of the wild, not little boys, and he will find no safety, no comfort here._

Hermann trips, catches himself, looks back at the shadow to find that it's gone. A deer, just a deer. He's seen a lot of them here, and they're nothing to be afraid of, but he hurries anyway because there's a creeping, gnawing worry on the back of his neck. It is very distinctly the feeling of being chased.

_Karla is chasing him, and he's screaming with terrified delight, because if she catches him she will tickle him mercilessly. He can feel her presence right behind him, even ignoring her giggling and thudding of her footsteps._

The feeling is heavy though, devoid of delight, devoid of the freedom he expected when he walked out the door; it feels like more and more like he's trapped. How can that be true though? He glances up, and the trees, some centuries old, block out the sky, placing him and the world around him in a strange world of twilight.

Hermann walks in a daze, stumbling, and at some point loses his bag but doesn't notice until it's nowhere in sight. Maybe he's crying, just a little, because of how confused (and a little lost though he will never admit) he is, and his leg is hurting from so much tripping and trudging, and when he finds himself standing in front of one his hiding spots, Hermann ducks inside without hesitation.

It's hardly more than a hollow spot under a massive slab of granite, shielded by the body of a fallen tree, but it's always felt safe to him. It doesn't stop the pain though, the ache that pulses through his entire body. A slow throb that makes him curl up on his side and hug his knees to his body. In his head, Hermann starts doing simple arithmetic, then time stables, then long division, then reciting the names of all the stars he can remember.

Nothing stops it. Nobody helps him.

 

_He runs, but it's not Karla chasing him, no giggling voice behind him. Hot, heavy breaths, and when the weight hits him, it's like being run over by a car. All he can do is scream as his entire body is jerked back and forth like a doll._

_The sky flashes briefly overhead as his head is whiplashed around. It's painted in pink and purple, and he can see the full moon watching him. He watches back as the rest of the world fades to an impermanent gray landscape around him, transitioning to black  just like the sky._

_Except for the moon, watching carefully._

 

Hermann jerks awake, cold and sweating, and his body hurting all over. He doesn't move from his place in the dirt and moss because he's sure that the slightest movement with be agony, and if he just keeps still and concentrates on the sounds and smells of the forest around him, he can ignore how miserable he is.

His mind is so tired that all he wants to do is go back to sleep, but he doesn't want to dream. He doesn't want to remember again, not the face of his mother as she cried over him or how angry his father looked. How Karla stopped chasing him for tickles

_he can't run from her any longer_

and that they moved Bastien out of their room into Dietrich's. They keep him separated, alone, and he's seen his mother pull out a separate set of utensils for him to use at lunch. He eats from the old plates, with the pink flowers, instead of the new blue and white ones. They were proud of him before, how smart he was, how he was constantly out-learning his tutors, and now…

He is hiding under a rock, thinking that it's better than being locked in a room.

 

_Light, familiar smells, voices. Closer, closer. Worried, frightened. Four people standing together, talking, unaware they're being watched. A door opens and two more people enter, one holding a bag._

_"Found it in the forest. No sign of him."_

_Suddenly strong arms are around him, lifting him, and he struggles furiously, thrashing wildly, but he is unable to free himself._

 

The sunlight is blinding when Hermann opens his eyes, and the blankets covering him stifling. He hesitates kicking them off when he hears voices outside his door though, keeping still and quiet to listen without detection. Absently his eyes rake over the empty shelves, the places Bastien's things used to be, as he hears his mother sniff delicately (crying again), and his father's terse voice (angry as usual). It feels like… there's something missing, a hollow spot in his chest while his mind distantly absorbs the words he's hearing.

"He is a danger. He fought like some kind of beast. I won't have him in the house."

"He's only seven!" It as much defense as his mother will ever provide for him; she won't fight, won't protect him more than those three words.

Hermann's lower lip quivers, and that hollow area suddenly fills with fear and sadness. It wasn't his fault. Why didn't they believe him?

"I've already arranged it. Stop crying. He'll be fine out there."

"You're treating him like an animal."

"You saw, and you might not want to believe it, but that's what he _is_."

The door opens suddenly, and Hermann only stares at the ceiling with tears running down his cheeks. When he remains unresponsive, limp like a rag doll, his father lifts him over one shoulder and carries him like a sack of flour.

No explanations, no goodbyes.

There's a pile of old blankets waiting for him, along with a plastic mixing bowl with remains of breakfast dumped in it, and a thermos of water.

"This is what you've _arranged_?"

"You know he'll destroy anything else. What difference does it make then?" The argument is more compelling than the boy left on the stone floor, and the door is shut and bolted.

* * *

 

"Look at my boy, gotten so big now." His mother's voice is so filled with pride as she runs her hands through his hair. "Hold still now so we can trim this, so I can see your eyes."

Hermann sits still, but not because she asks. Sitting still is what he does every day, all the time. His restlessness was worn out of him, poured out of his shredded feet as blood, when he paced the room until he was too exhausted to continue. It was a waste of energy, futile.

The electric trimmer buzzes to life, touches the back of his neck, and shears off his hair.

"You did so good. Here, look I what I brought you." His mother still treats him like he's eight (because that was the last birthday he celebrated).

The bag she hands him is from McDonald's. It's still warm. When he takes it from her, his hand is shaking.

Opening it releases the scent of the food within, and his mouth is watering. Slowly, like it might disappear from his hand, he pulls out one hamburger, unwraps it, and shoves the entire thing in his mouth.

"You should eat slower," his mother says, and reaches for the bag.

He jerks it away from her, then stands and hurries to the corner with his back to her. Nothing else is of importance, so he ignores her walking around his space, making small noises of disapproval, disappointment, disaffection, disinterest.

She should disappear.

It's as if the reality of everything around her, what her son truly looks like--a sixteen-year old dressed barely in rags--and what he's living in--a stone cell bare of everything except what boils down to that same filthy plastic bowl and a bucket for water--because she gasps. Her hands are on his shoulders, just moving across his skin, stopping at every wound they encounter.

"Herman…"

"You remember my name," he says after swallowing the burger, his voice hoarse from both disuse and abuse. He speaks rarely, alone, and screams when the pain dictates it.

His mother stands. "I'll be back." Her footsteps are different as she leaves, not the soft, hesitant things he's used to. Her heels click on the floor with definity, and when she leaves, she lets the door remain open.

This he knows because he can feel the light on his back, through the paper-thin shirt, but he can't turn his attention away from the food in his hands.

_Escape! Get out of here! Leave!_ a voice in his head screams uselessly at him.

And do what? Where would he go?

"Here, Hermann, look at me. No, I won't take your food away."

Nothing she does registers to him while he is focussed on food.

His filthy shirt falls away from his filthy, scarred body, and the scent of flowers fills the small, dirty room.

_French fries_. He hadn't cared for them when he was small, but they are like a gift from the heavens now. When he sleeps, he will place the bag beneath his head so the smell of it is the last thing he'll experience before the darkness.

"Are you done yet? No? That's fine. I'll wait. Why don't I read something, and then you can just listen. _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ , by JK Rowling."

 

"What are you doing? He's an animal!"

"We've made him an animal. Come on, Hermann. Let's get you clean." She has him wrapped in a robe even while he clutches the empty McDonald's bag to his chest. The house hasn't changed much since he was removed from it, but he looks at everything around him like it's a completely new experience. "He will go out once a month, and he will remain inside the rest of the time. We are not jailers and this is not a prison. This is his home."

 

She hums as she washes him in the tub. The water around him is gray while his skin is almost marble white except for the scars. She doesn't comment on the odd dusting of coarse gray hair on parts of his body, or the strange shape his body has warped itself into that isn't _quite_ wholly human. "I took some of your brother's clothes. He won't miss them while he's studying in Britain. We can order some of your own when we're finished. And then…" She has no idea what else to say, what to actually do with her son. "And then we'll figure something out."

 

His brother's clothes. He doesn't even know what his brother looks like now, because there certainly aren't any pictures of him in the spare bedroom (that used to be his). He sits and stares out the window while he waits for his mother to return. It's pretty, but boring; he'd outgrown caring what things outside his cell looked like many years ago.

Hermann turns to the shelf closest to him, reaches out and pulls off the first book his fingers land on. His fingernails are long and pointed, and they shouldn't be that way. Browsing through the pages, he wonders what his teeth look like, if they're in a strange state between human and wolf too.

"Hermann." His mother is standing in the doorway. There's a collection of school supplies in her hands. "Tell me something, truthfully: when it comes time, will you go back in the room?"

He nods and continues looking through the book, not truly reading any of it.

***

"The testing indicates he's actually what I'd call a prodigy. His grasp of mathematics is amazing, and while his reading is lagging a little, it's nothing to be worried about as long as he's diligent."

"He has a penpal. It's been helping quite a bit."

"Ah, well as long as it works for him. Please, nurture his interest in math in whatever way you can."

"I will. We've always known what a smart boy he is."

 

Maybe he'd not given his mother enough credit. But then nine years was a long time to lower a person's expectations. His family is lucky that he was never given the opportunity to become a sullen, rebellious teen; instead he's quiet and serious, and people look at him strangely. He can _feel_ them looking, can hear their unwhispered questions, can smell their curiosity. Licking his lips, he can taste their blood.

"I don't want you leaving the country."

Mother is speaking; he's not listening.

"If you go elsewhere, where will you…?"

At seventeen, cramming all of his lost education into the space of a year and riding his innate talent with mathematics, university _is_ in his future. He hopes it sends cold fingers of fear digging into his father's heart, the idea of his monster child out in the public.

The dreams are most prominent now, of tearing out the man's throat, but not with long teeth and  a gray muzzle, no. His teeth are human and his hands human as he commits the act, and it's satisfying in this manner. The dreams don't force him awake, not for the patricide, but for the detail that the moon is full and he is human. _That_ is the dream. That's his distant wish even though he knows he can never be normal again. Even if he didn't turn into a bloodthirsty creature once a month, his parents had assured it by locking him in a room for nine years.

 

Hermann dislikes computers. They serve a purpose, but he spent nine years in his head; he prefers something solid when he's working. A pen or pencil in his hand, a piece of paper to see his (shaky) handwriting slowly covering and then be tucked into a notebook for safe keeping. The others laugh at him for all sorts of reasons: his age, his haircut, his clothes, his limp and cane, so what difference does it make to give them one more reason? He trusts only one person, and keeps their every correspondence. It is a vague wish to reveal his secret, but he knows how impossible it is for others to believe, so it remains as that vague wish. Newton Geiszler is the one person that's roused his interest in the outside world.

Because the truth is that he's better than the other students around him. He's smarter, stronger, more resilient. He'll survive in the end, and they won't.

 

Looking in the mirror reveals that yes, his clothes are not stylish or flattering, but they hide the odd shape of his body. Living half-feral during the most significant years of growth has let the disease do strange things to his bones, like they stopped reverting to fully human each time. But that's all hidden at the moment in his oversized trousers and shirt, covered by a jacket. He doesn't need to look good because they decided to meet based on their conversations, their intellects.

The moment he sees Newton Geiszler, though, he wants to devour him. He wants to drag him into the cool, damp dark, and keep him there all for himself. He's never hurt anyone though, and refuses to start now. This means being in the presence of Newton Geiszler can't be allowed.

The monsters attacking cities seem less important when Hermann considers isolation, what he _must_ do. His father was right; he'll never fit in, can never be normal or fit in. He should go back home, live in his cell again until the world is destroyed around him.

"Hey, Hermann, what-"  
"Get away from me, Geiszlerrrr." He feels that, from somewhere between his chest and his throat, that noise that isn't quite an 'R', isn't quite a human noise. There's sweat on his forehead, trickling down the small of his back as he leans hard against the wall. The moon is well into waning, nearing new, so he doesn't understand what could be causing this, because it feels like… It feels like…

Hermann flees, runs outside, to the side of the building where he can hide behind some tall bushes. It can't be. It can't be happening now, but he's so hot that he rakes the top buttons of his shirt open with a single swipe of his hand.

"Hermann?"

"Please go away!"

"What's wr-whoa. What's up with your eyes?"

Hermann stares, feels the panic rising. It's the first time he's been afraid in years, but it's not for himself this time. Newton is just standing there, wide-eyed, and if the change doesn't stop, he will be Hermann's first victim. "Rrrrun!"

But he doesn't, the fool. He comes closer, kneels next to him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Just breathe. Slow, even breaths. With me."

And that is how Newton Geiszler soothes the beast, and discovers the darkest of Hermann's secrets. And it's how Hermann discovers that the monster isn't _him_. It might be a part of him, but It can't speak, it can't write, it can't learn. It can't try to save the world. It can't make a friend.

_Breathe. With me._

 


End file.
